


Brush Tip Barricade

by felicityfish



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Tattoos, pining!jolras, these dumb boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicityfish/pseuds/felicityfish
Summary: Eponine thought she was the last Ami left with no tattoos. She was wrong.





	Brush Tip Barricade

Grantaire was drunk again. Enjolras wasn’t sure why R bothered coming all the way out to the Musain just to slosh himself stupid. There were bars closer to his apartment, certainly less expensive, and he wasn’t one of those hipsters with discerning taste demanding craft brews from within a single kilometer radius. Grantaire would drink anything—reds and rieslings, brandies and beers, pina coladas and pale ales. He drank, he stared, he laughed at Enjolras. Enjolras at the head of the table, with his foolish hopes and impossible ideas. Grantaire looked at Enjolras liked he’d just proposed they launch a rocket to Mars from behind the Musain at midnight. Laughed like it was a student council election, and Enjolras had campaigned on pizza Fridays. Laughed like he felt sorry for the leader because he was just outside Grantaire’s inside jokes with Jehan.

That night, Grantaire wound ivy up Eponine’s wrist in dark green sharpie, slurping some blue drink Musichetta and Bousset kept hauling upstairs by the pitcher. Eponine kept laughing, maybe at Enjolras, maybe at the tickling marker.

Enjolras searched out Combeferre for some disapproving solidarity, but even Ferre had abandoned his meeting minutes to play tic tac toe with Courf. The meeting had been pushed back an hour to accommodate Feuilly’s schedule, but most of Les Amis used the interim to drink instead of waiting until after business as was customary.

“Okay, citizens,” Enjolras said, overly formal since he knew his audience was gone anyway, “this concludes our agenda. Back to nine o’clock next week.” 

He looked at Grantaire, face flushed from drink, curls mussed as if someone’d been pulling on them. Next to him, Eponine admired her new ink, nodding her approval.

Jehan noticed from across the table and clapped with excitement. “Now we all have tattoos!”

Eponine surveyed the group. “Am I seriously the last hold out?”

Jehan pointed to Cosette. “Candlesticks. She smiled. Beside her, Marius had his face buried in his hands, already dreading what was to come. “The alleged Japanese symbol for truth, which, upon further investigation, actually translated to noodle.” Joly stifled a laugh, and Jehan turned to him. “Medical ID bracelet—"

“A tangible bracelet could easily be lost or damaged in an emergency,” Joly said.

“—and a triangle.”

“The strongest shape,” Bousset reminded everyone for the millionth time, as Musichetta rubbed his shoulder affectionally. Her matching triangle was in full view with her sleeveless dress.

“Make that three triangles,” Jehan said.

An eye roll from Courf, “Ugh, soulmates,” from Eponine, and then Jehan crossed back to Grantaire.

“Too many to count, R.”

Grantaire grinned wickedly. “I could take my shirt off if you wanted to try,” he offered, and though Enjolras had never previously identified such a fantasy, his fingers itched for the hem of R’s soft green t-shirt. 

“Another time,” Jehan suggested diplomatically. “Feuilly has—"

“The flag of the motherland!” Feuilly pulled up his shirt to reveal the Polish flag on his chest.

“Just needs a blue stripe and he’ll have a gorgeous sideways tricolor,” Enjolras said, though only Bahorel heard.

“And Baz—Muhammad Ali quote?” Jehan verified.

“The legend,” said Bahorel.

Jehan looked across the table and smirked. “Courf and Ferre have the secret drunk mysteries from college.”

Courfeyrac suddenly became very interested in his mostly disintegrated napkin; Eponine spit half her drink on the table. After a fit of coughing, she offered, “If you guys show me, maybe I’ll get a matching one.”

Grantaire bumped his shoulder against hers. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that one?”

“Well, I’m up for suggestions anyway. I don’t want to be all alone with my untainted skin,” Eponine said.

“You’re not,” said Courf. His eyes flicked to the head of the table before he turned to Eponine. “Enjolras doesn’t have any tattoos.”

If Eponine had any blue drink left, she’d have spit it out again. “You’re fucking with me,” she insisted. “If that boy doesn’t have a ‘Liberté, Egalité, Franternité’ tramp stamp, I’ll get one myself.”

“Ep, I never knew you were so devoted to our cause. Shall I accompany you to your appointment to hold your hand? I hear the needles are quite painful, though I can’t speak from personal experience.”

She stared at him “No ‘Black Lives Matter’? No ‘This is what a feminist looks like’? No Declaration of Human and Civic Rights?”

“All excellent suggestions, but I didn’t want to interrupt my plasma donation schedule during freshman year.” It happened to be true, though everyone laughed like Enjolras had told an excellent joke.

“Freshman year’s over,” Courf said. 

Enjolras noted his best friend was usually more helpful than this. He shrugged. “I have something in mind, but I worry I’ll change my mind. That it won’t mean the same thing when I’m older.”

“Have R draw it and see if it looks as good on your skin as it does in your brain,” Jehan suggested.

Enjolras though of Grantaire drawing on Eponine’s wrists, how delicately he cradled her hands. “Now?” he said, voice suddenly shrill.

Grantaire put down his glass. “Tomorrow,” he said. “After Econ.” They were in the same lecture, but Grantaire didn’t typically attend.

“O-okay,” Enjolras stuttered out.

Eponine frowned. “So you’ll draw on me totally wasted but this guy gets special treatment?”

Grantaire looked down the table at Enjolras. Raised an eyebrow. “Our fearless leader always gets special treatment. You know I can’t help myself.”

“You’re a mess,” Eponine said. “Come share an Uber with me.”

 

 

Grantaire slipped into the Economic lecture ten minutes late. He sat directly behind Enjolras, tucked the tag into his shirt, whispered awful puns into his yellow curls. 

Enjolras’ notes were useless.

They ambled out together after, nearing the edge of campus before Enjolras broke. “Shall we go back to mine?”

Grantaire nodded to the sidewalk, pulling on his backpack straps and fussing with the zipper on his hoodie the whole three and a half blocks.

Upstairs, they abandoned their shoes and sweaters and then lingered in the kitchenette far too long. “Something to drink?” Enjolras said.

“God, Apollo. It isn’t even noon.” 

“I meant maybe water.”

Grantaire smiled. “No, thank you. The condensation could smear the ink.” He wandered into the living room and unpacked his Sharpie collection. Marker after marker emerged from the backpack, until the coffee table was rainbowed. Bold, brush tip, fine, ultra fine.

“Is that backpack a portal to Blick?” Enjolras asked.

“Something like that,” Grantaire said. “So, what were you thinking?”

Most Enjolras had been thinking of Grantaire’s tattoos, remembering the time they’d all gone swimming at Cosette’s and the water on his skin had—but surely that wasn’t the intended question.

“Um, I have some ideas,” he mumbled, pulling up an album on his phone. He handed it over and Grantaire flicked through, glowing. The pictures were different flyers from the inception of the ABC, hand lettered and photocopied onto rainbow bright paper. Back before Grantaire saved enough money for InDesign and PhotoShop. He’d drawn at least twenty different logos; Enjolras loved each one.

“Is it okay if I just try something, and if you don’t like it, we’ll do this again later?”  
“Fine.”

“Where were you thinking?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras ran his finger across his hip bone. Grantaire swallowed. “Okay,” he said, a little softer.

Enjolras unbuttoned his shirt and pretended his hands weren’t shaking, even as they tangled in the flannel.

“Here?” Grantaire asked, skimming a line just above Enjolras’ jeans with his thumb.

“Mhmm,” Enjolras choked out.

“I think,” Grantaire said, and then he stopped.

Enjolras poked him. “What?”

“I think—the belt, too. So your jeans aren’t so—I don’t want to draw on them. It won’t wash out.”

Enjolras fumbled with the buckle as Grantaire sorted through markers, selecting five or six black ones of varying thickness. He repositioned Enjolras on the edge of the couch, jeans low, hip facing out. Then he knelt on the carpet, in the narrow gap between the couch and the coffee table. He uncapped a skinny marked and held the tip an inch above Enjolras’ skin. His left hand rested on Enjolras’ thigh, steadying them both.

Grantaire looked up. “Do you permit it?”

**Author's Note:**

> You know that thing where you're supposed to be studying for your graduate school exams but instead you write cliched Les Mis fic?
> 
> That happened. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! =) If you catch any mistakes please do let me know.


End file.
